


Two Scoops

by drowsyfantasy



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Late Night Conversations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-20
Updated: 2018-01-20
Packaged: 2019-03-07 06:47:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13429122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drowsyfantasy/pseuds/drowsyfantasy
Summary: Lost to his own crisis, High King Anduin retrieves his father's sword on the Broken Shore. Instead of returning home, he remains for a while.





	Two Scoops

The night is dark and cold and full of howling wind and screeching demons.

Anduin Wrynn wraps his cloak a little tighter around his upper body and stares down at the sword, half-covered in his lap. With his hood up, he’s protected from the light rain and gusts, for now. He _could_ go home and curl up in the enormous bed in his chambers, or wrap himself in rich furs and sit by one of the many hearths in Stormwind Keep.

But he won’t.

Men and women trapse past him, their boots dragging in the muck of Deliverance Point. Guards, soldiers, champions. Tradespeople. Repair crews for the constant bombardment on their structures. Surely this place isn’t far from Hell itself. Perhaps he’s dead, and this _is_ Hell.

The sword is silent once more. Had that really been his father, reaching out from beyond death? Was it an illusion created by his fevered mind? Had the sword created an illusion to comfort and calm him? He felt no better than before, still confused, still hurting.

A heavy pair of hooves thuds before him and with a sigh, someone sits down beside him on the rocky outcropping near the command centre where he’d been contemplating his life. Without removing his hood he doesn't have a clear sightline, but when he starts talking, Anduin realizes who it is.

He had never officially met Illidan Stormrage. He had been a literal child when the night elf had been killed at the Black Temple. Many long years had passed, but he’d been brought back shortly before Anduin’s arrival on the Broken Shore. Velen had mentioned something about it. Khadgar and the Cathedral of Eternal Night. Gul’dan. _One_ of the Gul’dans.

Anduin wondered idly what one of his own alternate-selves was doing right now. Hopefully something pleasant. He imagined one of his other selves might be having a party now. Dancing with someone he cared for. Enjoying a fine meal. Or perhaps studying, or praying. His devotion to the Light would have to take a step back now that he was High King. His devotion to his people would always come first.

To be honest, it wasn’t a difficult decision, but - it still hurt. All the things he had to do when he got back to Stormwind. Anduin crumpled a little, tucking his head down, closing his eyes. He’d been raised from birth to be king, but the anxiety of running half the known world still made him dizzy these past few months since his father was killed. He grimaced and tried to calm his racing mind. _Find the Light inside, find the Light inside…_

“If you’re hurt, go find a healer.” says a voice beside him. Anduin blinks, startled out of his mantra. Had he made a noise? “No point in sitting here feeling sorry for yourself.”

Anduin was about to make a retort that he _was_ a healer, and this couldn’t be helped, and by the way, that was _extremely_ rude and -

_He doesn’t recognize me._

Of course not. Why should he? Why would Illidan Stormrage, dead for almost a decade, know what the crown prince of Stormwind looked like, let alone how he’d aged?

Anduin keeps his hood up, but leans back up a little, away from his lap. He keeps the sword covered, though.

“I’m not injured,” he murmurs, keeping his voice low. “I’m just thinking too hard.”

“Well, stop doing that.” Illidan’s voice sounds almost amused. “That’s not your role here. Soldiers just have to follow orders. We’ll lead you into battle against the Legion and we’ll try not to get you killed, though I can’t make any promises. Not everyone, it seems, has an immortal demon soul to be brought back again like some cheap parlour trick.”

“You aren’t happy to be alive again?” his eyebrows go up a little, still staring at his knees. His cloak drips with the little rain that’s starting to fall harder now.

“I’m here to lead an army, not reunite tearfully with my loved ones.” he snorts. “My brother is somewhere, Tyrande won’t speak to me, Maiev has her blade to my throat every chance she gets, Velen argues with me _constantly_ and the only one who seems to think this was a good decision is Khadgar. And even _he_ challenges me.”

“What about your demon hunters, your Ill...Illidari?” he tries the word. He’d heard it bandied about, but wasn’t sure how it was pronounced. Velen and Genn had accents so strong it sounded like a completely different term.

“They are devotees, fanatical at times, but I suppose they are some small comfort.” Illidan acknowledges. “I want them to trust in me, but not to be so slavish that they lose all sense of self. I don’t want a repeat of the Black Temple, _especially_ since after we drive the Legion back this time, I don’t know what they’ll do with me. Maiev will see me dead or in prison, neither of which are particularly appealing positions.”

“What about a royal pardon?” Anduin muses. “Surely if you petitioned the king, he-”

He is interrupted by laughter. He can feel a hand on his shoulder. It's massive, weighted, with claw-tips that dug not cruelly but clearly into the fabric of his cloak. “You are naive, human, to think that the Kaldorei will adhere to the wishes of such a small, young race. It is an idea, but it would not come to pass. They may play at politics, but they listen only to themselves. Once, I loved my brother. Once, I loved my people. Now, I see them for what they are. Superior, smug opportunists who care nothing for the good of the world and seek only to better themselves and their position in it.”

“Couldn’t the same still be said of you, Lord Illidan?” Anduin shoots back, feeling a little testy. The grip on his shoulder tightens. “All of you are chasing the immortality you once had.”

“Immortality is overrated. All creatures are immortal until they’re killed,” he points out. “Even in death, I was trapped within the Twisting Nether, chased constantly by demons. Suffering for long years, fully conscious, helpless, fighting each step of the way.”

“I can see why you wouldn’t want to go back.”

“This plane of existence has its benefits. I had ice cream for the first time the other day.” is that a smile he can hear in the demon hunter’s voice? The hand on his shoulder softens, but doesn’t let go. “It was sweet, and cold, and had little bits of strawberries in it. Have you had ice cream?”

“Many, many times.” Anduin admits. “If you like strawberry, you should try chocolate.”

“I will, if I can find the time.” Illidan chuckles softly. “Perhaps, when this war is over, I will be allowed a last meal before being returned to my grave. I would ask for a good roast, fresh greens, warm bread, hearty stew, and a pile of desserts. It would take me a year to eat it. Every minute of my prolonged stay in this world would infuriate those who seek to put me in the ground again, but I would enjoy their suffering as much as I enjoyed the sweet taste of ice cream.” he pauses. “What would you have served, if you knew it would be your last meal?”

“Nothing.” Anduin finally answers. “I would not waste food on myself if I knew I was dying. I would pray,” he says quietly, “and give the food to someone who needed it to stay alive.”

He still keenly feels the claws in his shoulder, but the weight changes, and suddenly Illidan’s voice is much closer. Anduin can feel the heat of the demon hunter’s body through the side of the now-soaked cloak, the rain dripping down his face.

“How very noble of you, human. You don’t sound like a soldier. A priest, perhaps?”

“After a fashion.” Anduin swallows. If Illidan pulled back on the cloak, he would expose the king to the entire muddy encampment. Why should he feel nervous? Velen was here, and he was the leader of his people. Genn and Khadgar were here, too. His own father had led the first charge, why shouldn’t he be here, with his troops. Was he too important to be here, when his people were dying around him? Or was he kept in the Keep to protect him as though he were still a small child, fragile, ready to be broken? “Shall I pray for us?”

“If it brings you comfort,” Illidan lets go of his shoulder, but didn’t move away. There is a loud leather _crack_ behind him and Anduin nearly jumps off the ledge, but realizes it's just the demon hunter extending his wing. With amusement, he realizes he's sheltering Anduin from the now-heavy rain.

Anduin brings his gloved hand up, reaching over, blindly groping until Illidan takes pity on him and enfolds it in his own hand. The human’s hand had grown large in his adolescence, and now that he was near the end of his teen-aged years, he was almost finished becoming a man. It's still dwarfed by the massive palm and claws of the demon hunter beside him.

His prayers are whispered, gentle, seeking guidance and comfort, asking for blessings and protection against those who would do them harm. Illidan remains silent, respectful, and surprisingly soft.

Without thinking, he prays out loud for his father, but managed to catch himself before spilling any specific details. Illidan squeezes his hand reassuringly, as Anduin’s throat begins to choke him with tears. It gets hard to speak, and eventually he falls silent, continuing the prayer in his head.

“I fear I will never measure up to him,” Anduin admits, after his voice returns. “He did so much for so many, and I am here for him, in his place, and I can’t be half of who he was.”

“I’ll tell you why you’re not half of him,” the voice is gruff, “because you’re sitting down.”

With a yelp, Anduin is tugged to his feet - not roughly, but it’s enough to startle him - and knocks his hood back.

For a moment, he’s staring up into the blindfolded face of Illidan Stormrage. Felfire shows the demon hunter’s eyes are wide, though what he can see with his spectral sight, Anduin does not know.

“There.” he whispers. “Now that you’re standing up, you can start to be the man your father expects you to be. A good father never wants his son to be a copy of himself. A _good_ father wants his son to be _better_ than himself.” Illidan’s hands are on his shoulders and upper arms, massive, looming over him, several heads up, the rain running over both of them in a beautiful catharsis.

“Thank you.” Anduin looks up at him. It’s hard to tell if he’s making eye contact or not; the blindfold obscures much of the demon hunter’s upper face and the fire in his eyes doesn’t betray what direction he’s looking in. He takes a breath. “If you do this. If you survive this war. If we _all_ survive this war, and you need a place to go - come to me. Come to Stormwind. I will see you safe, and not in a grave, guarded by those who hate you.”

“A noble gesture, indeed, but I assure you, it will not come to pass. My life will not extend past the Legion’s demise, one way or another.” Illidan shakes his head. “Still...I should like to try chocolate ice cream before the end.”

Anduin grins.


End file.
